


I Won't Bite

by havisham



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Humor, M/M, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-06
Updated: 2012-08-06
Packaged: 2017-11-11 14:09:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 11,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/479347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/havisham/pseuds/havisham
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Love, politics, and werewolves in the First Age! Oropher of Doriath, through no (or, at least, very little) blame of his own, gets far over his head, and comes out the other end a different person. (Thanks, in part, to Maedhros Fëanorion, cursed kinslayer and otherwise very unlikely lover.)</p><p>Written for chaotic_binky, Ardor in August 2012.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

It was all a very mysterious business, with missing (possibly runaway) princesses, seedy-looking mortals, obnoxious foreigners, and many, many secret letters passed back and forth. Oropher knew not much about it, though he knew enough to look alert and nod smartly whenever anyone important should come to ask him a question. About the sons of Fëanor, he had little idea, only there seemed to be too many of them, and they were a very bad lot, though they held themselves very high indeed.

No matter.

Of the drama between the princess and her father, Oropher knew enough to keep his mouth firmly shut. He had seen Beren only once, as the man had been dragged before the king. He hadn't seemed the sort of person that the most beautiful girl in the world should lose her head about, but then again, on the vagaries of love, Oropher would be the first to admit that he knew nothing.

Instead, Oropher stood smartly outside the king's antechamber - the one that was meant for the king's private business only, and a way off from the main halls where the business of the nation was attended to - and tried to look like he belonged there.

He tried not to slouch, which was a difficult business, because Saeros, the king's councilor and an altogether unpleasant sort of person was breathing down his neck, as if Oropher had mortally offended him - just by being born. It was just that Saeros hated seeing anyone get above where he could easily step on them. It was just what he did.

Oropher shot him a confident grin - just to show that he was not in any way put off by Saeros' open hostility - when his name was called, and he went inside. The doors closed behind him with a decided bang.

Now, Oropher took care not to gape at his surroundings like an awe-struck fool, who was straight from the deepest woods, and unused to Menegroth's many wonders. That was not what he was, at all. He had been here for two years already, and could take the splendid beauty of the Thousand Caves with grave equanimity.

But still, it was a difficult task to stay focused, for everywhere he looked, there was a new sight, a new marvel. The torchlight gleamed over the carved forms of both birds and beasts, that seemed to shift and move, with sudden lights in their jeweled eyes and ivory-carved claws. The trees too were fantastically wrought, and seemed to live their own mysterious lives of slow growth and gain.

A polite "Ahem!" brought Oropher back to himself. He bowed quickly, his knees scraping against the smooth stone floor. The sight before him now was more splendid by far than anything else -there sat Elu Thingol, tall and still touched by light of the Trees. Queen Melian, sat on his right. She was - indescribably fair, a power now housed in human-shape. And she was watching Oropher now with bird-bright eyes.

_She must know everything there is to know,_ he thought, with wonder. _About everything!_ And he did not think that she had just now winked at him, it must have been a delusion on his part. (Not, of course, that he was prone to delusions, but...)

The Queen's face was now quite grave.

But in any-case, it was she who had stirred him from his wonderment, and it was she who he bowed to, again.

"Enough, enough," said Thingol impatiently, gesturing to Oropher to come closer. He did so, with elaborate caution, until he was closer to the king and queen than he had been ever in his life.  
A shadow stirred behind the king, from out of it, emerged Celeborn, the prince. He was blunt. "You know your business, Oropher?"

Oropher nodded, eagerly. Well, he wasn't quite sure, but...

Celeborn went on. "We do not expect much from such - people, since they have not responded to the messengers we have sent before. This is their last chance to act with honor."

Here, Celeborn interrupted himself, and glanced over to his great-uncle, who nodded his agreement. "We expect that you should behave yourself. Can you do that?"

Oropher nodded again. Thingol said, his voice low but carrying, "Child, if I send you along, will you do your best to honor me?"

Oropher fervently assured him that he would.

Thingol looked doubtful, but his wife chose this time to speak. Her voice was deeper than her small frame would suggest, and reminded him of nightingales and starry nights at the very beginning of the world. "Your way is set, I deem."

The three watched as he bowed and scraped, and finally turned, and left the room. As soon as the door closed, he sighed with relief.

Now, Oropher, though mostly obscure and certainly untried, was no fool. If Thingol had wished to approach Maedhros in anyway other than straight-out hostility (that, nonetheless, fell short of fighting), he would have sent Celeborn, his own great-nephew and beloved of the formidable Galadriel, Maedhros' own kinswoman, to settle matters among them. Celeborn was the natural choice in such a mission, for the prince was skilled in all manners of diplomatic detangling, and had a great personal charm that could even undo a Noldo's stony heart.

(As seen in the case of his beloved, the lovely but somewhat gimlet-eyed Galadriel.)

Oropher, on the other hand, had none of those things. Perhaps, he was meant to be an insult. But for his king, he would do all of that, and more besides. And so he put aside his confusion, and squared his shoulders.

"I should hope to be worthy of the task," he said to no-one in particular, and walked out to meet his destiny.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains werewolf-related violence, and non-graphic description of wounds.

After the forests failed, mist rolled heavily across the plains. Silence dogged their steps. What conversation there had been before, faltered and died. Only the soft hoof-beats of the horses sounded on the dusty road, as they headed north.  
  
Oropher stifled a sigh and darted a quick glance at his companion. It had been a very dull ride thus far. To fight against boredom, as best as he could, he took out a a small mirror from his pocket, and examined his reflection.

  
Oropher was handsome – undeniably so, even if he did say so himself. He had long fair hair (of a largely indeterminable color – fair was the best way to describe it) that he wore down as a single braid down his back. He did not think very much about it, after that. He had the large, clear gray eyes of his kindred, and long eyelashes that softened, but gave steady sly humor to his glaze. His chin and jaw were a little too decided and a little too square to be fashionable in court – where, indeed, a certain delicacy of form was preferred. But delicate was his mouth, pink and mobile, and shaped like a bow. Ready, always to smile.

(And to speak, and to bite. Which he occasionally did.)

  
Oropher was only a scant few year past his coming-of-age, but felt himself to be quite grown-up, thank you very much. And he did so want to talk about this mission (hush-hush though it was) which was the first important one he had been given.  
  
He put the mirror back to its place, and looked hopefully at Mablung.  
  
But, alas, Mablung was no more likely to talk now than he had been a few minutes before. He did nothing to encourage conversation. In fact, things had become very strained between the two after Oropher, in a fit of youthful thoughtlessness, had made a joke about the latter's after-name. “Of course you're never lonely,” he had said with an engaging grin. “Your heavy hand is surely company enough!”  
  
Mablung had not taken this _at all_ well.  
  
Oropher kept  all further attempts at humor to himself. It was for the best.  
  
The mist was really very thick. Even though Oropher peered closely into the swirling whiteness, he could make out only vague shapes of rocks and trees in the murk. Instinctively, he felt for the package of letters tucked into his breast-pocket. They were in his especial charge, though he was supposed to have only vaguest notion as to what they officially contained.  
  
(He certainly had his own ideas.)  
  
Saeros, who was wise to all such things and had many occasions to handle much of the court's official business, always had said that Oropher asked too many questions. And Oropher was very fond of asking questions.  
  
He wondered aloud. “What do you think Himring will be like?”  
  
Mablung did not answer. His back, which was the only part of him Oropher could see, was ramrod straight.  
  
Undaunted, Oropher continued. “I heard its lord is horribly disfigured, is it true?” He paused, though he expected no reply. “Mablung, you've seen him! Is his hair really the color of blood? Is he truly _hideous_?”  
  
More silence.  
  
Oropher sighed, and slumped in his seat. “But you're welcome to ignore me, of course.”  
  
How he wished Amdír could have been there! Instead of where he was (which was languishing on guard-duty in the marches.) He, at least, could be relied on for some good gossip. And there was _such_ a lot of gossip to be had - what new song Daeron had come up with, what new rejection Lúthien had devised, so as to inspire Daeron's painful art... It was Lúthien who was the main subject of gossip now, since she had claimed to love a mortal, and had run away to look for him. The whole kingdom was buzzing with her adventures, following her trail as best as they could. But Lúthien's tale had ended after Nargothrond, as far as anyone knew.  
  
And that was why Oropher was on the road, with his letters, and Mablung with his silence.  
  
They rode on, in the mist, quiet dogging their steps.  
  
* * *  
  
Oropher was shaken awake from an unusually vivid dream in which a giant redheaded monster with a terrible white face, loomed up above him and he had nothing to defend himself with but a stick, that crumbled in his hands.  
  
But it was Mablung's face, white and drawn, that was looming over him. “Quiet,” he said before Oropher had a chance to speak. “Do you hear anything?”  
  
Oropher was about to snap that no, he didn't, when he stilled and truly listened. Beyond their little camp there was a solid bank of mist. And beyond that, there was a sound. It seemed like scream, of someone in mortal pain. It wavered in the dark, and died.    
  
“Could be a woman's voice,” said Oropher. Mablung nodded.  
  
“Do you think it could it be...?” Oropher's mouth went dry, he was almost afraid to say it. The princess had been missing for so long, and reports of where she could be varied so wildly. If they could find her now...    
  
Mablung gestured to Oropher to follow, and he did so without another word.  
  
The mist was thick as ever, and the dampness of the air settled on to their skin and into their hair. It was uncomfortably close; there was an evil feeling in the air that night. Oropher felt as if he could not truly breathe. The sounds came again, louder as they ventured deeper into the mist. They no longer seemed wholly human, nor truly that of an animal. Oropher wished he could speak, to say that they ought to go back, when a scream pierced the murk. They ran  in the direction of the scream, past large boulders, some the size of an elf or man, and others, taller.  
  
Another scream rang out into the night.  
  
“Do you see anything –“ said Oropher, when he was interrupted by a scream from behind, that of a dying horse. All was confusion, as they raced back to the camp. It was Oropher's horse that lay on the ground, panting, dying, its throat torn out.  
  
“What manner of creature could have –”  
  
Mablung's horse was nowhere to be seen.  
  
And then came a thing that Oropher would never be able to forget in all of his days. A Wolf-shaped creature stalked towards them, though it was alone, and also far too large to be any such thing. Its eyes glowed lamp-yellow and large, alive with malice and hate. It was a werewolf, a creature of Morgoth, a spirit of darkness that was bound, for a time, to a corporal form. Its face and mouth streaked with blood and gore, and its pelt was spiked and pitted with bites and scratches.  
  
And its red maw was red, bloody red, and it hung open, revealing rows of stained, razor-sharp teeth, From its mouth, came the cry they had heard before.  
  
Then, it spoke.  
  
It greeted them in their own tongue, though the sound it made was foul to hear.  
  
It was Carcharoth, the great wolf of Angband that stalked towards them, though they did not know it, at the time. A Silmaril burned in the creature's belly, the pain of the holy jewel, too much to be ignored, driving the creature mad. Madder. But this they also did not know.  
  
The holy jewel, burning and bright, too-bright to be endured, urged the wolf onward –  
  
Oropher swallowed drily, and wished, rather hopelessly, that he could have done a little more with his life before dying. (Which he would surely now do.)  
  
The thing stopped short, and began to cough. It coughed and coughed, and finally spat out some blood-soaked thing. It looked a bit like a boot.  
  
“Elves are so pointy,” it said, with something like regret.  
  
Twack! Twack!  
  
Mablung's and Oropher's arrows struck the giant wolf, which shook them off like they were irritating gadflies. It lunged after them, spitting out bitter imprecations about the sorry state of the world, and its place in it, all the while.  
  
(It would have been an interesting conversation, Oropher later claimed, if it had not been trying to take his head off.)  
  
But at least, one recent mystery was cleared up. “I do believe,” Oropher said, in between dodging the bites of the furious wolf, “I know what happened to the other messengers.”  
  
Then the wolf moved, faster than his eyes could follow and sudden pain tore through him, too much pain for him to say anything at all.  
  
* * *  
  
Mandos.  
  
Well. He had expected Mandos to be a great many things. Perhaps, it would be a restful abode for wounded fëa of the dead to heal after their painful sojourn in the waking world. A quiet place. Perhaps there would be nothing at all, to begin with.  
  
But. He had not expected it to be extremely wet. It felt like he was resting in a puddle, water soaking into his clothes and –  
  
“You're not dead,” said Mablung.  
  
The sky was graying and drear, but clear for miles around. Oropher looked around with a dull sort of interest at what was around him. Mablung had carried him -- or dragged him – away from the scrubby woods where the beast had attacked, and into a shallow cave that looked out over a landscape of bluffs.  
  
“Have you killed it? How did you drive it off?” Oropher's voice wavered, uncertain. He blinked furiously and took especial care not to look too hard at his left leg, which all his numbing, throbbing pain seemed to center on.  
  
Mablung shook his head. He looked south, towards Doriath. And Oropher followed his gaze. With difficulty, he said, “You must go, to warn the others.”  
  
“No! We will go together, we can make good time –”  
  
Oropher found himself being in the strange position of being the sensible one. He said, “Mablung, listen! That creature will tear a hole through the Girdle and come into our homes, take our families. You cannot risk it...”  
  
Mablung said, with some difficulty: “The Girdle will stop --”  
  
“No. It has not done so, once already. It could do it again.”  
  
After a few painful moments, Mablung got up, having made his decision.  
  
He nodded. “I will send help.”  
  
Oropher said, wry, “And I will be waiting.”  
  
* * *  
And he did wait.  
  
On the first day he waited, he thought how great of a hero he now was.  If Amdír could see him now! On the second day, and on the third, his enthusiasm had begun to flag. On the fourth day, if Amdír had seen him, he would have found Oropher in a pitiable state. The wound, which had been bound and treated with expert care by Mablung, had begun to fester.  
  
It had been poisoned, with something he had no antidote for. His leg, went from a gnawing pain, to numbness as more days passed.  
  
He did not wish for Amdír to see him now.  
  
Oropher observed the progress of his wound with calm detachment, as if it was happening to someone else entirely. He could still drag himself about the rough camp that Mablung had set up before leaving for Doriath. He had left most of their supplies with Oropher, though that too dwindled fast.  
  
A week after Mablung's departure, Oropher lapsed into a feverish state, half-dreaming and half-awake. Unbidden, the images of the king, the queen and Mablung came to him, admonishing him about his stupidity, his carelessness. He _deserved_ to be forgotten. It had begun to rain again, and a little stream of rainwater ran down to where Oropher sat. So great was his misery, he did not bother to move. Instead, he sighed, and tucked his head into his arms. After all, he was only a small actor in the great events of the age.  
  
Who would care whether he should live –  or die?  
  
Despite the times when he was consumed by guilt or pain, he kept a wary eye out for orcs, stragglers in this Eru-forsaken spot on earth. None appeared, which in and of itself was not much of a comfort. After all, hadn't he seen for himself that there were more dangerous things abroad than an orc?  
  
Another week passed. On lonely nights, over the steady pitter-patter of rainfall, he could hear the distant call of a wolf. He shuddered– perhaps it was not wolves he heard. Eventually, the rain stopped, leaving a sodden wood around him. It took all his effort to find enough dry kindling to start a fire. It smoked and sparked awfully, and he felt the better for having lit it.  
  
“A long night ahead,” he said softly to himself. But surely he was made of sterner stuff than this! He was determined to face whatever fate was in store for him with as much courage and dignity as he could muster.  
  
He soon fell asleep, and like a rock dropped into a deep well, into darkness.


	3. Chapter 3

He woke up surrounded by strange faces, speaking in distorted tongues. He was poked and prodded, and then pronounced a spy.  
  
“Wolves around every corner you look, and now a half-dead elf on our watch, you'll be sure that they'd be pleased to hear about this,” said one, a tall ranger with a vaguely worried air.  
  
“And his garb pronounces him from Doriath,” said another.  
  
“I didn't think they went outside their – what's it, some lady's underthing – Girdle?” said one particular wit.  
  
“Where,” croaked Oropher, his voice cracked with disuse.  
  
“It speaks at last!” said another, who had the look of a leader about him. He gave Oropher a hard look. “We'd better get him to the castle and let them sort him out.”    
  
And they grabbed his arms and dragged him to a horse, and none-too gently swung him across its back. The jolts from the ride seemed to him to bring him to his senses, and he struggled to get out of his bonds (some bright man having thought to tie him up), but it was hopeless. So, furious but weakened, he was brought into the camp of Fëanorians, a nightmare, worse than anything else he could have ever imagined.

He was handed over to a dark-haired, grim-faced woman who did not seem afraid to his would-be-rescuers the rough side of her tongue once she had a good look at her new patient. from the saddle and trundle him into bed. 

The leader, who began to look a little sheepish, said, "Pardon, Madam-Healer, but our orders were clear. No one crosses our borders without our knowing. We brought this man in to be questioned by the prince himself."

“With your rough ways, I'd be surprised if he should live so long as that,” said the Madam-Healer, quite tartly. They bowed hastily, and made their exit; Oropher managed to give her a small smile.  
  
“Thank you,” he said.  
  
She only shook her head and went to work.  
  
* * *  
  
He woke up again, in a small room, white-washed and plain. He lay in a narrow bed, staring up at the ceiling. Questions buzzed around in his head, with little regard for any answer he might get. Was he a prisoner here? How long would he be kept? Would they kill him? They had searched him, surely, and his clothes and gear were gone. He felt his chest tentatively, and found it to be clad in plain white linen. Pushing away the light blanket that covered him, he saw that he was wearing a light linen shirt and breeches, the left leg of one cut off at the knee.  
  
His left leg was neatly dressed and bandaged, and more importantly still _present._  
  
Steadying himself for the coming effort, he tried to get up. But he only collapsed onto the bed once again.  
  
The healer came bustling. She commanded him to lie in his bed, quietly, as she checked his wound. She peeled back the bandage, and took a look at it.

Oropher, morbidly curious, peered at it as well. It looked much as it had done in the weeks before – but the pain had lessened, and the bleeding had stopped. Some spirit of dead courtesy stirred in the back of Oropher's mind.  
  
He said, “Lady, what is your name?”  
  
At the same time, she said, “You're lucky to be alive.”  
  
Well, all things considered, he did not _feel_ so terribly lucky... But she went on,without waiting for an answer. She said she was Síriel, and she came from Lake Mithrim. He offered that he had cousins in Lake Mithrim, and after a period of intense conversation, they found that they had  a cousin (through marriage) in common.  
  
But what, he really wanted to say, are you doing here, with such people?  
  
She pushed her dark hair (which had escaped out of the bun on top of her head) out of her face, and said wearily that he had better rest.  
  
He said, hating how weak his voice sounded, “I have a message for the Prince, from the kingdom of Doriath.” Though perhaps he could not stand, he was still able to put more than a hint of pride into his voice. No one must think that he, a subject of – a representative of! – Thingol, would be daunted – _ever!_ \-  though he was in the midst of enemy territory, and helpless. But the healer looked not so much hostile as supremely irritated. “You'll be off that leg for a month or more. The poison in your wound was difficult to remove.”  
  
“But,” he said, working to keep his voice steady, “I have a message to give.”  
  
More kindly, she said, “And you have messages to hear, for much has changed since you were last in the land of the living.”  
  
He felt a sudden jolt of despair. _I knew it! Mablung has come and gone without me!_  
  
And she settled him down into his bed, and he let her do it, though he watched her with narrowed eyes.  
  
“We are living in extraordinary times,” was all that she would say.  
  
Oropher said, wearily, “More than you can know, lady.”  
  
“ Síriel.”  
  
“Lady Síriel.”  
  
She made a mocking bow, and left the room. Oropher went back to contemplating the ceiling.  
  
  
* * *  
  
They weren't interested in his secrets.  
  
All right, he didn't have many interesting ones, but it was insulting how they just assumed that this was true. He had prepared himself to withstand any amount of torture, to lie, bald-faced, for the sake of his king and country. But such preparations were (sadly) completely unnecessary. His only visitors where Síriel and her silent assistant. When he asked about his things, she replied snappishly that she wasn't responsible for such things.  
  
(Which was quite true.)  
  
And he lay in his bed, looking as meek as possible.  
  
(This did not work particularly well.)  
  
So he waited, not particularly patiently, for an opportunity to speak. He was forced to listen instead, and from that, he learned much. Voices carried, even in his obscure corner of the castle. It was true enough that their accents were strange to hear, but he could understand them well enough.  
  
There came certain words that jumped out at him. _Wolves coming from the north. Trouble. Nargothrond.  
  
Lúthien. Beren.  
  
Silmaril.  
  
 **Doriath.**_


	4. Chapter 4

But Oropher could not keep quiet for long.

Soon enough, curious visitors came to take a peek at the stranger. Many of them were willing to speak to him. From them, Oropher learned much. He found that Lord Maedhros' brothers, who had met with such disgrace for their conduct in Nargothrond, had not sought (had not been encouraged to seek) refuge at the home of their eldest brother.

  
Instead, Curufin and Celegorm had sought shelter at Amon Ereb, their brother Caranthir's stronghold. Rumor told of Huan – having abandoning his master of many long years, he had followed Lúthien to Tol-in-Gaurhoth, and had taken on many of the werewolves that gave that dreadful isle its name. Those he had not killed had scattered in all directions – frightened and homeless, but still deadly enough.

  
It was also told that Lúthien and Beren had not entirely been unsuccessful in their quest – that they both still lived.  
  
Here, Oropher could indeed contribute something.  
  
He stretched out as best as he could, hands resting in the back of his  head. His audience circled around him, consisting of scullery maids and guards, though some finer folk did see fit to join in, however discreetly.  
  
“Oh yes, Lúthien is truly that beautiful,” he said expansively, as if he had seen her more than once or twice in his whole life. But he had eyes, as much as everyone else. And if his tastes did not exactly go in for nightingales and starry nights, there was still something about the princess that moved even her most determined detractors. (Not, of course, that she had many of those, nor that Oropher was one of these.)  
  
Oropher paused for effect – not noticing that his audience had begun to scatter.  
  
He sighed. “And she's even better in motion.”  
  
“Ah, is she now? Perhaps that is why Morgoth needed a good lie-down after he witnessed her –“  
There was a significant pause, as the sound of many feet made their way to the exit.  
  
“Dance,” finished the voice.  
  
Oropher, eyes half-closed, said lazily, “Listen, you rascal, I won't let you speak of the princess in that imprudent way.”  
  
He then raised his eyes to glare at the speaker. But to his dismay, he found his gaze dragging upwards and upwards. His guest was unmistakable – after all, who else could be so absurdly tall, with hair as red as blood, and a cold haughty face and a manner that seemed capable of any sort of thing. His right arm was hidden in the folds of his cloak.  
  
Maedhros, son of Fëanor, Lord of Himring, kinslayer and cursed, bowed slightly. “Of course you can claim an acquaintance with Lúthien of Doriath, a thing I could never do. Forgive me if I spoke out of turn.”  
  
Oropher thought he should swallow his own tongue, or at least say anything other than what he did say. “Ah. Umm.”  
  
He then coughed loudly, to hide his embarrassment. He also turned red as a beet-root, which did nothing to hide it at all.  
  
Maedhros was not hideous. Indeed, quite the reverse.  
  
The line between beauty and ugliness was a thin one, and Maedhros on the very knife-edge of it. Rumors had Maedhros Feanorion as very handsome, but rumors were rarely right, and so it was in this case. Perhaps, once, he had been unambiguously beautiful -- in the softness of youth, really, anything was possible -- but it was clear to see that time and circumstances had worked upon the eldest son of the late (unlamented, for the most part) Fëanor harshly. As in a crucible, they had burned away any softness and beauty and left only the most persistent bones and scared flesh upon his face, on his frame.  
  
Violence marked him.  
  
His nose had been broken at least two times, and gave the impression that it wished to go in two different directions at once. His face too bore faint scars, the origins of which did not bear thinking about.  
  
His mouth was set in a grim line.  
  
He did not look like he could be pleased by _anything._  
  
(Except he was smiling now, which could only mean that he was not above making fun of fellow sufferers...)  
  
His eyes, a too-bright grey, were uncanny, like the eyes of the rest of the Exiles. But no, they were more uncanny than the rest, and Oropher had no doubt that things might --  and did – flee from his face.  
  
And there was his (twice broken) nose and chin, still so arrogant and jutting, all pointed down at Oropher. Who tried again. “Er. Good evening. My lord.”  
  
Maedhros gave him a look of polite interest, as if he had done something rather commonplace that nonetheless must be commented upon. “Perhaps I should come back later,” he said, though he made no move to leave.  
  
Oropher had quite gotten over his shock by now (most importantly, he had stopped gaping) and so returned to the relative comfort of his most insolent stare. Of course, he knew that there were certain conventions that he ought to observe, as Maedhros' (nominal) guest. Well, he assumed that he was a guest and not a prisoner, his bed was much more comfortable than a straw-strewn stone floor, but one really never knew with _this_  sort of people...  
  
And because Oropher was nothing if not plainspoken, he started of at once.  “Tell me, Lord Maedhros, am I your prisoner here? I assume you have read what I was here to give you, and if you haven't, a close questioning of the men who brought me will doubtlessly clear things up on that account.”  
  
No, it was a pity that the same conventions that assured his own safety also guaranteed Maedhros'. It would not do, after all, if he should leap upon Maedhros right at this moment (leaping quite high) and attack –  
  
Well, Oropher would be swiftly overpowered – Maedhros was more than his match in strength and speed, and there were sure to be guards just outside the door. He was loyal to his king and to his kind, but he hoped that he was no fool.  
  
Maedhros was speaking, as tranquil as one would like. “Of course you are not a prisoner, but my honored guest --”  
  
Oropher could not quite disguise a snort, which Maedhros seemed not to hear. He went on as if he had not been interrupted. “As for your letters, I have received them, and they grieved me, truly. But I can do nothing for Thingol at the moment, I'm afraid.”  
  
Forgetting that he was not supposed to know what was in the letters themselves, Oropher burst out. “ _Nothing for him!_  After the disgraceful way your brothers acted –!”  
  
Maedhros' face darkened, but Oropher plunged on, heedless of danger before him. “They captured our princess, threatened her freedom – they sent your own kin into certain death! I say the last because I know the appeal of blood speaks more strongly to your kind than clear and simple justice!”  
  
In a low voice that nonetheless was clear with every word, Maedhros said, “Do not presume to speak to me of justice! It is never simple, nor ever clear. I cannot help Thingol in locating his daughter for the reason that she is already in Doriath. As for my kind, yes, I bear the responsibility for them and their actions, this I cannot deny, nor  would I want to.”  
  
But Oropher shook his head in wonderment. “Lúthien is back in Doriath?”  
  
“Yes, and her lover too. It is all quite an extraordinary story, from what I have heard of it. Through not yet complete, it seems to me.”  
  
 _The Silmaril_ , thought Oropher, _they have not gotten the Silmaril!_ Now, it would be madness indeed to speak to a son of Fëanor about the Silmarils (especially if his temper was up, as Maedhros' clearly was), so Oropher took an uncomfortable refuge in blank looks and silence.  
  
After a moment, Maedhros said, drily, “I can see that I have astonished you, Oropher of Doriath. You are free to go at any time that suits you. My only request is that you wait for your leg to heal, and I say this on the advice of Lady Síriel, whose judgment I have not yet had reason to doubt. But the decision lies with you.”  
  
And Maedhros left Oropher then, sorely troubled, and completely astonished.


	5. Chapter 5

Time passed, as it was wont to do. Oropher's leg was healing astonishingly well –  Síriel declared herself impressed, and impressing  Síriel was no mean feat – and soon enough Oropher was up, if not exactly yet about.

He could hobble from place to place, leaning hard against his crutch, eyes sharp for any kind of trouble. Wherever he went, he cut a broad swathe around him, with people craning their necks to see the stranger from Doriath, the one their own lord had seen fit to visit.

Oropher, never one to shy from attention, however given, tried to carry himself in a way that, while not exactly prideful, was at least proud. He would not cast his eyes down, abashed at the splendor of his surroundings, for the memories of the Thousand Caves came to him – the flickering of countless candles, giving a  strange  half-life to the myriad of carvings of birds and beasts, of plants and trees, elves and Valar, all.

Compared to that, the halls of Himiring were well-made, and nothing more. Carved from the living rock of the mountain upon which it rested, it sat, grim and determined to see its work done. It was its people that made it seem so, of course. Himring, cold, unwelcoming, strictly utilitarian, was a place meant to endure hardship, not foster beauty.  
  
It was depressing, in short.  
  
It also had a lot of stairs, which Oropher took to climbing, ignoring the protests from his leg and the frowning looks of the healer. He hobbled, true, but he could feel himself healing with every step he took. But healing also took patience, patience that Oropher found that he lacked, for day by day, hour by hour, he found himself in a strange mood of half-dread and half-expectation, as if he was on the edge of some great precipice.  
  
And as if he was teetering. He was teetering.  
  
He took a shuffling step back, and stared down the darkened stairs below. It was a very long way down.  
  
No doubt, he assured himself, his uneasiness was only eagerness to go back home. And if home had felt dull and limiting before, surely his recent adventures had shown that the world outside was unpredictable and dangerous.  
  
“You ought not to wander so far, if you do not wish to be thought of as a spy. We do not take kindly to such folk,” said a voice above his shoulder. Oropher, not quite used to Maedhros' sudden appearances and eccentric way of speaking, could not help but jump a little. He stifled a little cry of pain that rose to his lips.

  
A little contrite, Maedhros moved away, and motioned Oropher to follow him up another another set of stairs. They ended up in an deserted alcove, lit only by a small window that let in the weak afternoon sun. A light breeze wafted in, bringing with it a scent of rain.  
  
Maedhros leaned against a wall as if he had always been there, and watched him quizzically. Oropher said, his finger tugging at his braid, “I am no spy. There is nothing I need to know  about you. My lord.” He lifted his eyes to watch Maedhros, who gave him a little grim smile.  
  
“But surely I am not _your_ lord, as you have taken pains to tell me?”  
  
“It is true that you have no claim over my loyalties, for I am not of your folk, nor do I choose to follow you. I would never do so.”  
  
A pause. “Are you quite sure you’re supposed to be a diplomat?”  
  
“Well,” said Oropher, stung, “I suppose the wolf may have eaten up the more skilled members of our diplomatic corps, leaving only me --”  
  
“A tragedy, to be sure --”  
  
“That the others died and that I lived? Indeed.” Oropher’s voice was rawer than he wished it to be. He was giving away too much! Maedhros was still and as silent as the stone behind him. They stared at each other, as if they wished to pry some concession from each other.  
  
Finally, Maedhros said slowly, “Perhaps, you at least will be heartened in knowing that their deaths were not your fault. Not all can have such comfort.”  
  
  
“Yes. You least of all. My lord.”  
  
“Yes, I least of all.”  
  
Abruptly, he changed the subject.  “Beren and Lúthien, do you know what they sought?”  
  
What they sought...Well, everyone knew that. Oropher remembering anew who he was talking to,  and where he was, said not-a-little haughtily that he was but a humble messenger, who knew nothing of the doings of the great.  
  
“Ah, yes. Humble, indeed,” said Maedhros, with a slight twitch of his lips. Without another word, he turned and walked away. He did not look back.  
  
Oropher stepped back from the edge.  


 


	6. Chapter 6

_Watch yourself, you foolish boy. What terrible danger you're in!_  
  
Suddenly jolted awake, his mind was ablaze with the fast-fading memories of his dream. Hands, his own, were grasping at unknown flesh, his fingers lacing together with another hand, his mouth pressed on another lips. Mouth opening, a wicked tongue darting in. He was drawn ever closer to the edge, closer to destruction. If he should close his eyes again, he could see the imprint of flames against his eyelids, and feel the heat of the fire traveling lightening-quick through his body.  
  
With a sigh, he wrapped his wrinkled bed sheets around himself and resolved to leave at dawn. His dream had been a warning, he was sure of it, of the way he was heading. He had been here too long, growing a little more content every day – speaking to Síriel, to Maedhros, exploring Himring, climbing the highest towers until the sky seemed to reach out towards him and take him to its breast, giving him a glimpse of a kind of freedom that he had never thought of, in the deep forests of his home.

  
But that promise was false, and was not why he lingered. _You must be brave_ , said a voice in his head, one that sounded like the voice of his king. Oropher had only heard him – the king –   once or twice in his whole life, but he recognized it within a heartbeat. _You know why you linger._  
  
 _Repent.  
Redeem yourself._  
He would. He could do nothing now but that.  
  
* * *  
“We're to hunt the wolves, will you join us?”

  
Some of the denizens of Tol-in-Gaurhoth, fleeing the might of Huan and the deadly enchantments of Lúthien, had escaped to the east, and came ravaging throughout the countryside, until the white snows turned black and red from their depredations.  Oropher said yes, pushing aside, again, the small worried voice in the back of his mind warning him that he ought not to linger, that he ought to leave as soon as he could. But it was easier to ignore that voice when there was so much to distract him. Maedhros turned to him, eyes brightened as if he remembered some joke.  
  
Oropher leaned towards him, to catch what he said. And then pulled back, stricken by guilt. Guilt gnawed at his gut, knotted with lust and uncertainty. He stole a glance at Maedhros, who seemed to see nothing out of the ordinary about him. But he knew it was there, trembled within him, threatening always to unloosen, finally, and all his sins, his disloyalty would spill out for all the world to see.  
  
He did not know if Maedhros could understand this, if he knew about. Before, he had believed the Fëanorians were loyal only to the memory of their dead father and to their dreadful Oath. But Maedhros seemed – he was – not at all what Oropher had expected. Before, he could have never imagined that the grim Lord of Himring could bring himself to joke, or allow himself to laugh. But hadn't their first encounter started with a joke on Maedhros' part?  
So it hadn’t be a very good joke – an appallingly bad one at that –  
  
 _What am I thinking!_ Oropher frowned to himself. _Oh, Maedhros can't be such a terrible person – he can take a joke! And you're a fool, Oropher._  
  
Jokes aside, in the time they spent together, Maedhros took – pains, very special care, never to reveal too much about himself. Oropher knew very well what Maedhros did not want to think of. At least he thought he did.  
  
***  
  
How Oropher wished he could stop _dreaming_ about him! He woke, panting and hard, and could have torn the pillow apart in frustration.   _Fool, fool!_ echoed in his head.  
***  
  
But he had not much time to brood on his frustration. With Lady Síriel's reluctant permission, Oropher was allowed to go with them. The hunt was on. They went forth abroad, on the lookout for the pitiless beasts that ravaged the countryside. For days, then weeks, and finally months, they were all intent upon their quarry. And Oropher spent those months in Maedhros' company, and observed, as best he could, all that the Noldor did differently from the Sindar.  
  
That was what he told himself. And certainly, there was much to observe. The Noldor did not rely as heavily on the element of surprise, as as his own people did, when it came to a fight. They would rather overpower – with their sharp steel, and – he admitted it to himself, if no one else – their courage, which was high and rarely daunted. If he could forget what he knew of them – of Maedhros – he could come to admire them. If, if. It was a dilemma.  
  
And Oropher did not _like_ dilemmas.  
  
***  
  
Another bothersome dream. He shook off the tangled threads of sleep, and rose from his bed. He dressed and dragged a comb carelessly through his loose hair. Careful to make no sound, he left the tent full of sleeping men and ventured into the night. The cool night air served to wake him more and sharpen the hazy resolve that gathered strength within him. He felt for the belt on his waist and found what he sought – a knife with a red jewel on its handle.  
  
It had been a gift, given to him by Maedhros earlier that day, in acknowledgment for a thing that Oropher had done the day before. _I should have let that wolf tear his throat!_ Oropher shivered. His light linen shirt was no protection against the night air.  
  
He paused outside Maedhros' tent – larger and finer than all the others – there was a guard, sleeping. With his right foot, Oropher nudged his leg, but the guard slept on, lost to the land of dreams. With a shrug, Oropher let himself in. Maedhros' tent was darkened, except for the red glow of a solitary lamp. And in his bed, low-slung and long, slept Maedhros himself, his back to the door. Oropher crept closer, and could, in time, hear his steady breathing.  
  
And his own.   
  
Out slid the knife, its edge glittering even in the dim light. Oropher stopped in front of the bed, and waited. Slowly - maddeningly slow -  Maedhros turned and looked at him, his eyes dark in his pallid face.  
  
Conversationally, Oropher said, “If I were to kill you now, I would be a great hero. The Mariners of Aqualondë would be avenged.”  
  
Maedhros said, “Do it then. Strike me down, I won't stop you.” He pressed his hand against his chest, motioning to Oropher to strike. _Here._  
  
And Oropher could do it. He _could._  
  
But instead, his grip on his knife loosened, and after a moment, he threw back his head and laughed.  
  
“Are you always this dramatic?,” he said, as he climbed into Maedhros' bed. Surprised, Maedhros rolled over to make room for him, though in the end, they crowded close together, limbs bent and heads down, surrounded by a vast expanse of white sheets.    
  
Maedhros' voice was low and smooth, liquid to Oropher's ears. “You call _me_ dramatic? You were here to assassinate me.” His hand traced the line of Oropher's jaw, Maedhros' thumb indenting his lower lip. Instinctively, Oropher bit down, softly against Maedhros' skin. It was a moment before Maedhros took his hand away.  
  
With some difficulty, Oropher said,“I could do it still.”  
  
“You could try --” Maedhros' lips hovered close to his, _too –_  
  
Oropher moved a little closer, and caught his chin. He kissed Maedhros, impatiently, hungrily. He had wanted to since the very first time he had seen him, from the very moment. It had driven him to distraction, to know that he could never – should never – consider doing this.  
  
Well. He had never been good at following orders. (Or prudent advice.)  
  
Perhaps, perhaps he should raise his sights to something – _higher._  
  
But this was not the time for such thoughts, because the future did not exist then, there was only the present and it was filled up with Maedhros, with peeling back his bedclothes – shoving them down roughly, and kissing a freckled shoulder. He paused to paw at his own shirt, ineffectually, until, Maedhros untied the stubborn knot with a quick twitch of his long fingers.  
  
“Practice,” he murmured, before Oropher silenced him with another kiss.  
  
Maedhros' scars crisscrossed his whole body; they were as mortal marks on immortal skin. Oropher traced one, made by a serrated blade on the flat of his stomach, with his fingers and with his tongue. He wanted to know, to touch, and to see Maedhros shudder as he did it.  
  
He wanted to know – so much. Was it true – what they said about him – and about his cousin – _Finbar the Bold_ or something like that. (Those _Fin_ -names, they all sounded the same.) Oropher's hand closed around Maedhros' right wrist, and he examined the jagged ring of scarred flesh that surrounded it, and where the flesh stopped.  
  
“They say he loved you, the one who did this to you. Is it true?”  
  
“Don't. You can't –“  
  
Oropher raised an eyebrow. “I am naked in your bed, what do you know of what I can or can’t do?”  
“Being naked in my bed does not entitle you to know everything about me.”  
“Everything about you?” His voice rose to an indignant pitch. “I know nothing about you, except rumors and half-truths.”  
“The things you know are true. Or near enough, anyway.”  
  
Oropher scrubbed his eyes, and sighed. “If you wish, I could leave this tent, steal the finest of your horses, and never see you again. Would that make you happy?”  
“I'm never happy.”  
“Then I'll stay.”  
  
* * *  
  
Oropher started. “Did you drug the guard?”  
Maedhros looked innocent – or tried to. “Who, me?”  
  
* * *  
  
It wasn’t like Oropher was a blank slate.   
  
He had scars too, places where a knife blade had slipped between the cracks of his armor (which proved all too light) or where an arrowhead had nicked the smoothness of his cheek. Of course, there was now an ugly scar on his left leg, marred forever (or however long he managed to live.) He leaned hard upon that leg, ignoring the sharp, brief stab of pain as he leaned on it, straddling Maedhros' thighs, his hands holding lightly to Maedhros' hips.  
  
  
“Ah. What would you like me to do?” Anxiety cut sharply into his self-confidence.  It did not help that Maedhros shrugged, pretending vast unconcern, as if he could comfortably lie there all day. If it weren’t for the hardness against his leg, he would have assumed that Maedhros was completely disinterested in what he wished to do. The last straw came when Maedhros made a move to stifle a yawn. Oropher's leg began to ache, and he tumbled over and hid his face in the bed sheets.  
  
His voice was muffled as he said, “All right, you've won. Which one of your horses are you especially fond of?”  
  
He did not jump when he felt a cool hand on the back of his heated neck or lips on his ear.

“I could show you,” Maedhros said, his voice like honey.   
  
Oropher turned to him – and shivered. He said _yes_ , and _all right._  


 


	7. Chapter 7

It was early winter, and they had made camp on the bank of a narrow river – more of a stream than a river, but still, one deep enough to cross with care. Their hunt had been a success, as it happened. The werewolves they did not catch, they chased off deep into the wild.  
  
Maedhros' tent was the warmest one – the brightest lit, and most closely guarded. Oropher stole in easily enough – the guards turned their faces away as he approached. _See no evil_ was as good a guide as any, he supposed. Maedhros was hunched over his letters, which arrived daily from all points of the compass, and did not look up as Oropher sauntered in. He did not look up when Oropher decided to test the sharpness of a certain blade and bumped into a table.

Oropher dropped it then, and wandered over to Maedhros, and peered over his shoulder.   
  
The letter twitched in Maedhros’ hands. He hated, more than anything, to have someone read over his shoulders.  
  
Oropher said, “Did you have to teach yourself how to write, all over again?”  
“Yes,” Maedhros said, going back to his letters.  
  
“You gave up being king. I wouldn't have. Not for _anything_.” Oropher sat himself on the divan, next to Maedhros, looking critically around him. “And now you have all the responsibilities of a king, but nothing to show for it. It seems to me rather thankless.”  
  
“I do sometimes think it is thankless, when people come to me and bother me with their nonsense. What do you _want_ , Oropher?”  
  
“Nothing! I was only making conversation.”  
  
“Well. I gave up being king because I had to, and because I wouldn't have made a good one.”  
“Yes, kings are expected, after all, to have sons to follow them.”  
“They are indeed.” Maedhros dipped his quill into the inkwell. “And what's all this about kings anyway? I should think you already had a king. You keep telling me about it, anyway. Don't tell me that our –“   
  
Maedhros raised his eyes to him, and Oropher couldn't help but give him an impudent grin.

  
“Our adventures have made a rebel of you,” said Maedhros, with some satisfaction creeping into his voice.   
  
“No-o-o-o,” said Oropher hastily, “I am as I ever was.”  
Maedhros sighed, disappointed. “What you are is an appallingly bad liar.”  
“We can't all be as good ones as you,” Oropher snapped back.  
  
“Give it time,” said Maedhros absently, going back to his letters.

  
* * *

  
The days were spent like this: riding through the countryside, cold dragging at their bones. They were looking for a fight and found it. Werewolves plagued the land, growing so bold as to venture out into the daylight. They smote them down, with savage glee. They were not, Oropher reminded himself, ordinary wolves that he had some occasion to see in Doriath, but creatures of the Enemy, and remorseless in their pursuit of all good creatures, whether on two legs or no.  
  
Nights were spent like this: passionate, yet strained by the weight of things that could not be said or this delicate thing between them would break, beyond all repair.  
  
  
* * *  
  
“But tell me about Menegroth,” said Maedhros, before letting his lips skim the edge of Oropher's cock. Flustered, gasping,  Oropher said, “Don't you ever forget yourself? Not even for moment?”

  
Maedhros shrugged, and realizing that Oropher couldn't quite see him, pulled away. “I only ask because I've never been there,” he said, “nor am I ever likely to be.” It was the way he spoke that set Oropher's teeth on edge. He could feel himself be persuaded with all Maedhros said and did, no matter _what_ , as long as he spoke to him in that way.

  
“Oh, if you say it like _that_ ,” said Oropher, remembering all at once how many rules he was breaking to be here, to be with Maedhros, who was gazing at him with an unreadable, maddening expression on his face, both pleased and disappointed, and planning, ever planning.

  
Maedhros wiped his mouth, and Oropher turned away, shamefaced.

  
“Oropher...” And Maedhros was touching him, he was _always_ touching him, who gave him that right? _I did_ , Oropher thought, half-despairing _, I came to him._

 __Maedhros' fingers were at his side, stroking him as if he was a skittish horse. He was almost a head taller than Oropher, and so he bent down, letting his hair brush against Oropher's shoulders, his lips pressing against Oropher's ear.

In a low voice, Maedhros said that he only wished to know more about Oropher, where Oropher was from. How could he not? “You,” he said, touching Oropher _again_ , until he felt like he would burst, “did what no one else would dare, would every dream of doing. Can you blame me for wanting to know everything about you?”

  
Oropher flushed at hearing his own words turned against him. He said, slowly, “What no one would dare …? You mean do mean _yourself?_ ”

  
(Oropher found it difficult to think when Maedhros touched him.)

  
“Of course.”   
“Of course,” Oropher echoed, feeling too lost to be mocking. “I suppose the worst you could do is have me murdered.”

  
Maedhros held Oropher's face in his hands. Tenderly, he said, “You're a brave and beautiful boy. I would let no one murder you. I would do it myself, if need be.” He let Oropher go, but  Oropher could not quite bring himself to move away. Then, Maedhros  threw his splendid head back and laughed.

  
Oropher supposed that was his idea of a joke. Maedhros' sense of humor, like the rest of him, was deeply flawed.

  
* * *

  
And yet, it could be so sweet.

  
It drove Oropher to distraction, the sweetness of some of their encounters, the way Maedhros kissed him, and held him, lightly, as if not to remind him of the freedom he'd lost. Sometimes, mussed and relaxed, he would tell Oropher a little of his childhood in Valinor, in the time of the Trees, a time and place so utterly different from anything Oropher had heard before. In turn, Oropher would tell him about his life in Doriath, and stories he had heard of the time of the stars. Maedhros would listen, and sometimes ask a question or two.

  
And as Oropher answered, Maedhros would come closer, and touch him and stroke him until he was aching hard, until Oropher forgot his words and begged, wordlessly, for Maedhros to release him.

  
And he would, he always would, and Oropher would slip, bonelessly against him, inhaling the scent of his skin, and fall asleep, eyes closed, for the rest of the night. Maedhros, who slept but little, and almost never in Oropher's presence, would lie still, breathing even, staring out into the darkness beyond them.

  
* * *

  
Maedhros fucked like he was fighting for his life, that there had to be a winner between them, otherwise – otherwise he would fall apart. Oropher woke up with bruises on his hips, darkening against his lightly tanned skin. He looked with wonder at Maedhros, who lay beside him, not-sleeping, but not yet awake. His arm was outstretched, ready to strike, at anytime, at anyone. 

  
_But I love him!_

__  
Oropher wanted to say, “I know what you have done, and yet I love you. I do. My heart is given to you,  utterly.” If Maedhros could hear him, of course, he'd only tell Oropher not to be an ass.

Love, he would tell him in a patient voice that drove Oropher mad, could never be so freely given. Nor should it be.   
  
But instead of brooding over this, Oropher got up and started to dress. The rustling of his clothes brought  Maedhros to himself, and he eyed Oropher with suspicion, mixed in part with a certain amount of affection.  
  
“Come back, there's hours yet before anyone will need you –”

  
A voice, outside the tent spoke aloud. “My lord, there is an urgent message for you, from Prince Maglor!”   
  
Maedhros was ready to receive his message in a blink of an eye, and though both he and the anxious-looking messenger spoke quietly, in their own (forbidden) tongue, the gist of the message was easy enough to guess.  
  
 _A Silmaril now burns in the woods of Doriath!_

* * *   
  
Oropher slipped out before anyone could stop him. He took Maedhros' favorite horse, a milk-white stallion with an uncertain temper, and rode until he reached the Girdle.  
  
To his great surprise, he was allowed in. To his even greater surprise, he found the kingdom in vast disarray. Carcharoth had been there indeed, slaying the party of elves that had been sent to rescue him, and then ravaging the countryside so terribly that the king himself had been forced to join in the hunt to stop him. But even the king and the greatest warriors in Doriath could not stop the beast. It had been Huan, the Hound of Valinor – Celegorm's hound, until the noble beast abandoned his master for the friendship of Beren and Lúthien – that had slain the creature.  
  
And in its belly burned the Silmaril –Morgoth's Silmaril and Fëanor's, before him. ThIngol’s Silmaril – for now.  
  
“It's amazing,” remarked Oropher, to everyone who would listen, “But I came so close to the thing (of course there was a hundreds of pounds of raving mad wolf between me and it) and yet...” He quietened his voice. “And yet...”

Then, he lapsed in to silence and would speak no more about it.   
  
Oropher had, at last, learned the value of discretion.

  
  
* * *

  
Now, everyone agreed that Oropher had returned from the dead a very odd person (prone to strange fits of temper and entertaining ideas far above his station in life) and none were very much surprised when one day, he went missing again, never to return. He took Amdír with him, and whoever else they could persuade to come with them.  
  
But where were they going? Across the Ered Luin, to the lands beyond it, they replied.

  
But why? To see what was there!  
  
It was all very odd.  
  
What other place did anyone need than Doriath, than Beleriand?  


 


	8. Epilogue

He was like a man reprieved, blinking in the bright sunlight.  
  
Except that wasn't quite it, since punishment had long since come and gone, leaving him once again, unmarked and given a share of time, for whatever peace he could find. He had thought (idly, as it turned out) that he could turn his hand at growing cabbages or raising pigs. But as for the former, he found that he lacked a talent for agriculture (if he had to do it himself rather than organize it), and as for the latter... He had thought raising six brothers was an onerous and smelly task!  
  
Perhaps he should take up a new hobby entirely – perhaps underwater-basket weaving. Except, of course, the class for underwater-basket weaving would take place in Aqualondë, and that was still a place he could not go to – for all the talk of truth and reconciliation preached about by his uncle. (And aunt, he reminded himself, with a lingering hint of surprise, remembering the trace of steel behind Ëarwen's eyes when they had met again. Had she always resembled her strong-willed daughter so much?)  
  
Now that Artanis – that was to say, Galadriel, the name she wished to be called by – was back in Tirion, he could ask her himself. That is, if she should wish to talk to him, which was doubtful. She certainly hadn't been in the mood the last time he had seen her – across the smoking wreck of Doriath, a child clutched to her breast. They had stared at each over, both unrecognizable from the people they once been. He had thought it was her daughter and had felt momentarily hurt that she had not seen fit to even send him a letter telling him that he had a new cousin.  
  
Except the child hadn't been hers at all, but Dior's, and had had a Silmaril around her neck. The Silmaril that had always slipped through his fingers, like water.

  
As for his own Silmaril... He could still feel the burn of the jewel, the way it had licked at his palm and melted into his flesh... His left hand still burned at times, although the flesh was new and healed, perfect. But still, the pain hung on in memory. It was the same with his right, though for different reasons, a different pain.  
  
Maedhros closed his eyes. The sun was far too bright.  
  
He pulled the ancient straw-hat (an heirloom of his house, the only one left) over his face, and wondered how he dared show his face to the world now. He also wondered if the light would make him freckle, which would be, of course, just punishment for his crimes.

  
Well.

  
 _True_ repentance was one thing, but there was no need to go overboard.  
  
He heard a step behind him and snapped that truly, he did not want for anything. Irritably, he said, “Stop _hovering_ , Findekáno, and spend time with your wife and child!” (And though time and the world had passed, he had not quite forgiven his valiant cousin for... )

But Fingon was very kind, to let Maedhros stay on here. And 'here' was not a splendid palace as was originally offered, but a small stone cottage and a small garden, ringed with a high, high wall.  
  
It was meant as much to protect himself from Aman, as Aman, from him.

  
That was yet another unfruitful thing to think about. So, he turned his thoughts back to Fingon. Well, for all of Fingon's virtues – of which there were many – subtlety was not one of them. He would appear, again and again, at Maedhros' door, with a new sheet of music, or a piece of honey-cake, or a  new chessboard on which they could play – all of it to keep Maedhros out of his awful depressive _funk_ , as Fingon described it, as if (restless, admittedly) contemplation of his past misdeeds was merely a passing _mood_.  
  
Now, Fingon was a dear old friend (the dearest friend Maedhros had ever had), but he was entirely without a clue.

  
And he would _not_ stop hovering.   
  
“I'm not what's-his-name. Findekáno. He doesn't know I'm here.”  
Maedhros opened his eyes wide. He couldn't keep the wonder out his voice. “How did you get in here?”  
Oropher said, “I climbed the wall.”

  
And he smiled, bright as any jewel.

  
  
* * *

  
  
Old habits die the hard, and he couldn't help saying, “You should be furious. You should kill me, don't you see?”   
  
But Oropher couldn't seem to see this obvious fact. He ignored him. It was as if Maedhros hadn't spoken at all. Instead, sitting beside him in the springy green grass, Oropehr told Maedhros about what had happened after Beleriand drowned.

  
Oropher had gone off – to the edge of the known world, almost. He had met a woman there, had married her – she was of the Nandor, had never heard of Beleriand, of Doriath, of the Silmarils, and most of all, hadn't minded that he had loved another.

  
Here, Oropher gave him a swift, searching look. Maedhros took his hat off – freckles be damned – and began to twist it in his hands.  
  
They had had a golden-haired child, who he had named Thranduil. In looks, he had been very much Oropher's son. But in mood, he had taken after his mother – “A regal woman,” Oropher said, a touch wistfully. “She will never leave Middle-earth. Not to meet me here, nor to follow Thranduil, if he should decide to sail one day. She follows her own path.”  
  
Maedhros tried to make sense of what he was being told, and what he could remember as a naked fëa, peering anxiously into Vairë's tapestries. “You were a king, the king of Greenwood.” Greenwood the Great, a forest almost without end.

  
Oropher looked vaguely embarrassed. “I did not want them to call me that! The Nandor had no king, and wished for none in honor of Lenwë who was slain, and Denethor his son. But the survivors from Doriath were used to such things.” Maedhros gave him a distraught look, but Oropher continued on. “They  insisted on calling me that. Soon, everyone followed. When Gil-galad started sending letters addressed to the King of Greenwood, I was the only one who could answer back with what he sought.”

(Maedhros was far too polite to mention the giant spiders.)   
  
Instead, he nodded, remembering the Second Age, Sauron, the Last Alliance of Elves and Men. The Men, Maedhros remembered only vaguely and with some faint loathing – since the Nírnaeth, he could not help but regard Men as a whole as a bad lot.

  
(As ironic as that was.)  
  
But he could remember Gil-galad easily enough, though his paternity was more of a challenge. True, he was a cousin of some sort. But then again, Maedhros did have a very great number of cousins. As for Elrond – wise and brave – who could forget him? He was his brother's own foster-son, after all.   
  
“Prigs, both of them,” said Oropher, briefly. “Well, pricks, really.” Maedhros bit his lip and regarded the hem of his shirt cuff studiously. It was fraying, he realized with dismay.  
  
“But pricks though they were, and though they had their heads stuffed up their own asses half the time, it was me, only me that – well, I sent my own men to their deaths, and it was no consolation that I died with them.”  
  
Maedhros couldn't help but staring. Who was this strange elf, and what had he done with Oropher? (Though the profanity, regrettably, was familiar.)

  
As for Oropher himself, he went on, his face flushing in excitement, “Oh, but don't you see? I've spent ages being angry and bitter. Being thoroughly ashamed of myself. I couldn't decide who I blamed more, you for doing what you did – or myself for running away when they needed me most. It poisoned me, ate me up inside, so in the end, I ran straight to death, because I thought that was what I deserved.”  

  
Maedhros said, a tad impatiently, “But? There is a but, isn't there?”

  
Oropher laughed, a rich sound that sprang over the hum of growing things, and reverberated in the garden, and around the high walls that surrounded them. “ _But_ –  I am alive again! And so are you, and so are they. Why hold on to ancient hurts? What good will they do us now?”

  
After a while, Maedhros conceded this much: “You've grown wise since I saw you last.”

  
“And you,” Oropher said, reaching out to tuck away a stray lock of hair from behind Maedhros' ear. “Have grown positively young! I would not have recognized you, except, of course, for the fact that you're very hard to miss.”

  
They sat together in companionable silence for a long time. The afternoon sun sank lower into the east, and the shadows grew longer in the garden. Suddenly, Oropher got up and started busily to dust his leggings, the seat of his pants, stained green with grass.

  
He looked up as he finished. “Well, are you coming?”  
  
Maedhros' hat was straw-colored dust in his hands. It was a pity. His grandfather had loved that hat, had exchanged a golden crown for that hat, when they had been exiled to Formenos. And now it was dust.  
  
 _ **No**_ , he thought. _I should stay here. I should stay here, and wait for my brothers to be rehoused, for Maglor to come back from the other shore. I should wait for Amil to forgive me, for the rest of my family to decide to speak to me again. I should --  
I should do all of these things. _

_What would Atar say?_  
  
But Fëanor was dead and could say nothing, his brothers were dead (mostly) and unreachable, certainly. They needed nothing. The Oath was void. His Silmaril burned in the heart of the world.

  
Maedhros looked up at Oropher, who stood over him, looking very pleased with himself.

  
The realization crashed over his head. He was _free_. For the first time in his life. For the first time in _both_ of his lives.  
  
“Where?” said Maedhros. “What would we do? Where would we go?”

  
“ _Anything_ – as long as we don't hurt anyone –   _and anywhere_ – as long as we stay in Valinor, I suppose,” said Oropher.  
  
And that was what they did.

 

 

 

 

**The End.**

 

**Author's Note:**

> Contains minor canon deviation(s) -- The Silmarillion mentioned (very) briefly that Thingol set off messengers with (potentially politically fraught) messages to Maedhros, in the wake of Lúthien's escape from Nargothrond. (Since, as Celegorm's eldest brother, and the leader of the Fëanorians-at-large, he was obviously responsible for the latter's terrible behavior, re: Lúthien.)
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> Unfortunately -- or perhaps, fortunately, for Maedhros' admittedly shaky peace of mind -- those messengers were waylaid (and, the text suggests, killed) by Carcharoth, who was on his way to Doriath. Only Mablung survived to get the word out.
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> Also, a note on werewolves on Middle-earth -- I've seen no indication -- though I could be wrong -- that a werewolf bite would make anyone into a werewolf. Alas, werewolves seem to be only there for the whole terror-and-killing-biting thing.
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> Finwë's straw hat started its fictional life in an earlier story of mine, where Maedhros also briefly appears.
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> Thank you, Himring, for your hand-holding, and awesome beta-skills.


End file.
